


Survival

by Luka



Series: We're a Team [11]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: It's the second England training camp, and a beleaguered George receives support from a rather unlikely ally.





	Survival

**Author's Note:**

> This is the latest instalment in my series that tries to explore what might happen if two international rugby stars came out. A reminder, too, that I've hijacked characters for my own nefarious ends - it's fiction! And here's a warning for much cussing ...
> 
> This story takes place during the second England training camp. Owen is still on his statutory five-week break.

Almost the first person George saw when he arrived at the Lensbury was Danny Cipriani. He was sitting on a wall staring out over the hotel grounds and looked relaxed and at ease. Despite the times they’d been in the England set-up together or had played against each other at club level, George never felt that he knew the other man well. He’d seen all the newspaper headlines, of course - and not just on the sports pages. Trouble seemed to follow Cipriani around, but several people who knew him much better than George did claimed that that was nothing like the true picture of him.

When he saw George, he hopped down off the wall and held out his hand, pulling George into a quick and unexpected hug as they shook hands.

“Great to see you, Fordy. Congratulations to you and Faz on the engagement.”

“Thanks. Nice to see you, mate.” George scrutinised him closely, but could only detect warmth in the brown eyes.

“I really admire what you’ve both done. That was a cracking interview the other night.”

“Thanks. It’s been bloody weird seeing our private life all over the media. Oh shit, sorry ...”

The laugh was genuine. “Welcome to the club! Maybe we should set up a support group …”

“Look, the fact I’m engaged to the England captain doesn’t give me any special privileges in the squad. And Eddie’s known all along.” The justification was out before he could stop it.

Danny smiled wryly. “If it did, you’d be starting every game at 10. And don’t worry - I’m under no illusions as to why I’m not Eddie’s first or second choice.”

“You deserve to be here. You’ve had an amazing season. Congratulations on the awards.”

“Thanks. The Gloucester move has been awesome. They're a great bunch of lads."

“I know Jonny misses them.”

“They’ve got a fund of Jonny stories!”

“Most of which will be true …”

“I laughed at you saying in that interview that you’re his carer and life coach...”

“Also true!”

There was a brief silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Danny said: “It’d be good to chat properly over coffee ...”

“Yeah, I’d like to,” said George honestly. He was thoroughly intrigued by the guy and felt guilty that he hadn’t made much effort to get to know him better in the past. Owen had been privately disparaging about Danny’s maverick tendencies, and George wondered guiltily whether that had coloured his own view. “Let me dump my bags and I’ll see you downstairs in about half an hour.”

When he got upstairs, he found that his new roommate was Danny’s Gloucester teammate Willi Heinz, who he didn’t know at all well. He assumed they were pairing newcomers with a more established face.

George held out his hand. “Nice to see you, mate. Welcome to the madhouse. How you doing?”

The handshake was firm. “I’m good, thanks. Nice to see you too, Fordy.”

“One thing about sharing with me … You realise I’m gay?”

“Yeah, so?” Willi’s response was delivered in a brisk Kiwi accent. George thought he’d qualified for England through a parent or grandparent. “I’m straight and married, you’re spoken for and we’re both here to play rugby. Other people’s private lives are none of my business.”

“Thanks.”

“Well done on that interview the other night. Folau’s a cunt.”

“Yeah. And thanks, mate. I appreciate it.”

Back downstairs, George and Danny settled down in the coffee shop. They chatted about the Premiership season to start with, and then got on to talking about teammates and the England training squad. It was obvious that the Gloucester fly-half knew his teammates inside-out and had spent considerable time studying them. It backed up what George’s Kingsholm mole had told him. And George had been impressed by the way the already talented Gloucester back line had been rejuvenated under Danny’s creative touch. 

Danny got up to buy them refills of coffee and George glanced at his watch - an hour had easily slipped by. But it was what he enjoyed off the field - sitting around and talking rugby. 

A text from Owen pinged onto his screen: “Check your email. NOW.”

George reached for his iPad and downloaded his emails. The top one was from Jamie to him and Owen, and had something attached to it.

It was a screenshot from Ashton’s Facebook wall. The post was from someone called Jos Durham and was linked to the feature from the BBC site. They’d written above it: “They can fuck the arses off each other in private if that sort of thing turns them on, but why can’t Baby Butch and the Sugar-Plum Fairy shut the fuck up and stop flaunting it in public!” Ashton had ‘loved’ the post and then typed a row of thumbs-up as the top comment.

He must have gone pale because Danny, returning with the coffees, said: “Fordy, are you OK?”

Without thinking, George handed him his iPad. 

Danny’s initial comment was succinct and uncomplimentary. Then he said: “He was one of the academy players at Sale when I was there. Cocky little shit. And what the fuck is Ashton’s problem?”

“Fuck him!” George’s fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. “I dunno why he hates us so much.”

“Personal shit like that always hurts. I’ve done some bloody stupid things over the years, but people have also told a lot of lies about me. You and Owen are now in the firing line because you’ve both been brave enough to speak out against bigotry. Is all this connected to why he was sent home?”

George nodded, too angry to trust his voice. This proved that Ashton had been bad-mouthing them to his mates. The bastard knew that Owen’s nickname at Saracens for years had been Baby Faz while his dad had been at the club. And he’d obviously forgotten - or maybe just didn’t care - that he still had Saracens players on his Facebook friends list. Neither George nor Owen had ever been friends with him on social media.

A new email from Jamie, again sent to him and Owen, appeared in his inbox. “Whoops, I appear to have sent that screenshot to the RFU, the RPA and Sale Sharks, and then emailed it to a lad I know on the Guardian. Oh dear, what a shame, never mind …”

***

The Guardian website had the story up within about 20 minutes. There was a ‘no comment’ from Ashton and a bland ‘we’re investigating’ quote from the RFU. The RPA had said that they took a hard line on two of their players being the target of homophobic abuse and would be investigating urgently. It looked like The Guardian were still trying to contact the instigator of the post - George had never heard of him and presumably none of the sports writers had a contact number for him.

Word went around like wildfire, and the coffee shop turned into an impromptu meeting place for most of the team. George sat in the middle of it all, his head swimming. Danny was still next to him, talking quietly to JJ, Ben and Ant. Jonny had plonked himself down on the other side of George, and was looking thoroughly uneasy. 

The place went quiet when Eddie appeared in the doorway. And George decided to get his retaliation in first. His voice, which was suddenly perfectly steady, could be heard by the whole room, as if he were commanding a training session or match.

“Before you ask, Eddie, neither Owen nor I are friends with him on any of the social media platforms. And if you don’t believe me, here’s my iPad. You can have a look. So we couldn’t have leaked the story.”

“Come on, son, no one’s accusing you of anything. But it’s gonna stir up a lot of shit we could do without …” Eddie was staring openly at Danny, who was now sitting calmly with his hand covering George’s.

“Go easy on the boy, Eddie. He’s having to deal with his private life being dragged all through the media as well as blatant homophobia from other players.”

The coach and the Gloucester player were staring levelly at each other. It reminded George of the ‘first one to blink’s a wuss’ routine that he and his brothers had perfected when they were little. He took a deep breath, trying to control his rising anger. “And I don’t want to hear that Owen and I should have kept quiet and that we’ve disrupted team unity. Tell that to Billy and Ashton … We’ve got every fucking right to live our lives openly and without being abused by bigots.”

He then got up and walked blindly out of the room.

***

It was Ben who found him an hour later sitting under a tree deep into the hotel grounds, his knees drawn up to his chin, and staring into space. He’d turned his phone off when it wouldn’t stop ringing or beeping, and commonsense had only kicked in at the last minute when he’d been sorely tempted to hurl it into the lake.

Ben sat down beside him and put his arm around George’s shoulder. For someone who couldn’t usually keep quiet, he sat in silence, his presence oddly reassuring. The only thing he did was to send a text message, then tuck his phone into his pocket.

“Who did you text?” said George eventually.

“Faz, Jonny and Cips. They just need to hear that you haven’t run away to sea.”

George snorted, but it came out more like a sob. “I get seasick on the Birkenhead ferry …”

Ben cuffed him lightly around the ear. “Don’t give us heart failure like that again, kiddo. You’ve got Faz climbing the walls and threatening to turn up here. And the last I saw, Cips was giving Eddie a hard time for doubting you. And everyone else was gobsmacked by you giving it to Eddie straight between the eyes and then storming out. You didn’t leak the story, did you?”

“Of course not. Neither Owen nor I are friends with Ashton on any social media platform.”

“Do you know who did?”

George hesitated, then nodded. “Don’t ask me to tell you, though, Len. Please.”

“OK, I won't. And I won't tell anyone that you know."

"Not even Jonny."

"Especially not Jonny. Look, I think you should phone Faz.”

George looked vaguely at his phone. Ben sighed and pressed a number on his own phone. “Faz? Yep, he’s here … In the grounds somewhere … Just you, Jonny and Cips. I’ll hand him over. His phone’s still turned off.”

Owen’s voice was surprisingly gentle in his ear. “You OK, Georgie?”

The childhood nickname made George bite his lip. “Yeah, I just needed some space. Are you OK?”

“Yeah ...”

“You’re not. I know you’re not.”

There was a silence, then Owen said: “I’ll be fine now I’ve more or less calmed down ... I’m gonna go to the gym in a bit and pretend the punchbags are that cunt’s head.”

“Why does he hate us so much?”

“Bigotry, jealousy, maybe … He’ll always blame us for the fact he’s been slung out of the training squad. Have you told anyone who did it?”

“No, and I’m not going to.”

“Good. Me neither. Go inside now or you’ll miss dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” said George vaguely.

“Bollocks. You need to eat something to keep some meat on your bones. Look, come straight here on Thursday, OK?”

“I will.”

“Love ya, our kid.”

“Love you too.”

***

Nothing was said at dinner about his outburst earlier, but it was obvious from the number of people hugging him or squeezing his shoulder that most of the team were rooting for him. Coley and Lenny seemed to be making plans for party games in one of the team rooms after the meal. George couldn’t think of anything worse.

He picked at his food and at the first possible opportunity slipped outside. He’d seen Danny leave the room just ahead of him.

“Mate … I just wanted to say thanks for earlier. I really appreciate it. But don’t drop yourself in the shit with Eddie because of me, please …”

The smile he received in return was faintly rueful. “Not a problem. And don’t worry - I can’t be any more unpopular with Eddie than I am already!” 

And he seemed to guess how concerned George was, as he added: “Fordy, my love-hate relationship with England rugby has been going on since before you were selected, so stop worrying. And I know just what it’s like to have people gossiping about your private life. You and Faz are tough bastards and you can get through this.”

“Thanks, mate. You’ve been a star. You gonna come to this games thing that Coley and Lenny have organised.”

“Not really my thing. I’m going to have an early night.”

It wasn’t George’s sort of thing either, but it struck him that probably the main difference between him and Danny was that George frequently subdued his own doubts for the sake of the team, while Cips was definitely his own man. So he simply said: “See you in the morning, mate” and then took a deep breath and headed off to the team room.

In the end, the event turned out to be an inspired idea. George’s childhood birthday parties had all been activities-based, so he’d never played pin the tail on the donkey or charades … Grandmother’s footsteps featuring some very large forwards was probably the hit of the night. And George laughed till he cried at Jonny cheating shamelessly to beat Elliot at musical chairs. He had to admit that Coley and Ben had been right. Everyone went to bed relaxed and laughing.

***

Nothing more was said in camp about the leak. The story was mushrooming in the media, though, with both the RFU and Sale Sharks saying they both intended to talk to both Durham and Ashton about the post. Ashton had elaborated on his initial ’no comment’ by saying that it was a private post on his Facebook wall and should have stayed private. Tellingly, there was no apology.

Training was high-octane, and George threw himself into it as if it were the World Cup final. He was loud, decisive and left no one in any doubt as to who was pulling the strings. If Eddie was going to drop him from the squad, he wasn’t going to go quietly.

At sparrowfart o’clock the next morning after a fitful night’s sleep, he was too tired to question why they were being piled onto a coach and driven west, and instead fell asleep quickly. When he woke, they were passing Stonehenge, which George had never visited. Danny, who’d been reading a book, handed him a bottle of water and a protein bar, both of which George demolished quickly. Across the aisle Ben was drowsing and Jonny was engrossed in a magazine that seemed to have dinosaurs on the cover.

“Where are we going?” asked George.

“No clue,” said Danny cheerfully. “I bet it’ll turn out to be one of Eddie’s bonkers bonding plans. Come on, go back to sleep.” And he pulled George against him, suggesting forcefully to a couple of the others that they could stick their innuendo where the sun didn’t shine after they’d suggested that Faz would hunt him down and cut his balls off for feeling up George.

“It’s OK, they’ll think you’re …” George tried to sit up and pull away.

“They can think what they like. Come here …”

And George curled up against Danny and promptly went back to sleep.

***

George thought later how convenient the Cornwall trek had been. Eddie wouldn’t have had time to arrange it within 24 hours, so Cips’ bonkers bonding theory was seemingly correct. But it had got them all away from the media shitstorm. 

Their phones were taken away, they were given some basic kit and then sent out in groups on the survival exercise, supervised by the RAF. George focussed on collecting firewood and then helping to saw it into lengths. It was oddly comfortable curled up by the fire hearing the low voices chatting around him, the only light coming from the flames. George had set up his bedding to one side, but the others had arranged their bedding around him, as if to protect him. 

They talked about childhood and school and relationships. The others wanted to know about George and Owen, but it wasn’t done in a nosy, gossipy fashion. There was an unspoken acknowledgement that what was said that night would stay around the fire. They wanted to know if either of them had slept with girls. George, embarrassed, shook his head, then realised no one could see him in the dark and muttered that he hadn’t. He knew Owen hadn’t either, but didn’t think it was up to him to say that. 

He drowsed, and later wasn't sure what he’d told the others and what had been a dream. There were images imprinted in his head of him and Owen meeting for the first time, then gradually falling in love, then embarking on their tentative relationship that had rapidly developed into the sort of love that George had never believed existed outside of films and books. He remembered them making love for the first time the weekend after George’s 16th birthday - they'd both been scared and had pored over a guide to gay sex book Owen had ordered from Amazon, but it had been amazing. “We’re meant for each other, our kid,” Owen had whispered as they’d lain in each other’s arms afterwards. And that was the nearest a couple of inarticulate teenage boys could get to expressing their feelings. 

George saw the Owen that no one else did, not even his family. Most people only saw the loud and aggressive sportsman. Teammates saw his off-beat sense of humour and his modesty, as well as his single-minded focus. Owen was close to his family, but it was George with whom he truly let down his carefully constructed facade. Neither of them were great with words, but George knew that Owen believed him when he told him haltingly how much he loved him. And he hoped he’d never lose the warm feeling enveloping his body when Owen said the same to him.

George knew what the point of the whole thing was - bonding with and trusting your teammates. He didn’t mind heights particularly, but the high and low ropes scenario was disquieting. It was obvious that they’d be closely shadowed – England Rugby wouldn’t want to see their expensive players coming to grief. So George got his head down and focussed on not falling off anything. He didn’t much enjoy it, but he got through it. And he could see how much it had energised some of the lads.

At the end of it all, they gathered to thank the RAF personnel. George had been nominated to give the thank-you speech in Owen’s absence. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he switched to formal mode and came up with something that was at least fairly coherent and heart-felt - one of the benefits of scrubbing up well, as his gran would say.

Once this was over and the obligatory photos had been taken, George assumed they’d head back to London. But instead they ended up on a Cornish beach for lifeguarding and endurance exercises. George wasn’t much of a swimmer and he could see that Ant was also hating every moment of it. As a voice from the back – maybe Sam – observed as they laboured through the sand and into the sea, rugby players really weren’t built to float.

It was the encroaching tiredness and a momentary lapse of attention that did it. The current was strong and the group George was in were struggling to keep their raft steady. One large wave, and George was in the water. He had a life jacket on, but he couldn’t seem to get himself horizontal to either swim or float. And he felt himself being dragged away from the raft by the current. He was vaguely aware of lots of raised voices, but he was surprisingly calm. Maybe drowning was the way to go …

A lifebelt landed just in front of him and instinctively he grabbed it and then felt himself being pulled towards the raft. Courtney’s long arms reached out and pulled him back to safety. George rolled over and sat up, trying to steady his breathing.

Courtney was watching him worriedly. “Whatever you think of me, Fordy, I’ve always got your back. Honest.” 

“Thanks, mate,” he said, squarely meeting Courtney’s eyes.


End file.
